Pablo Says

” Loving is a journey with water and with stars, with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour. Loving is a clash of lightning bolts and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.’ Neruda

I swoon and arch my neck reaching for his nektar

Loving is a journey of the heroes kind

epiphany the only victory and poetry for proof

sinking into deeper vulnerability through points of light

confabulated or originated

loving bathes me in my own humility slitting my throat and opening my legs.

true voice is true love

a humming baritone amongst the scented petals

love is my tongue sliding through the mud

always the mud rich and flavoursome

inhaling rain and feeling the sting

Immersed in the music of invisible sensation

rolling throughly underneath my naked airs

and wet

sliding from the womb of an old paradigm

undoing into magic through gateways of vibration

left is right and right is left and love is a syllable that reverberates

boiling water

bringing your chest closer

slicing and levitating monoliths

www.arnabaartz.com.au

Prose Poultice


hot rocks and books soothe me

their awareness somewhat circular

contained and expansive

felting through my skin

this fragrant prose poultice warming my naked heart

flicking fingertips

page by raw page 

peeling back 

textured and curly

earthy and aromatic

dust and water

new and old like paperbark 

the stories imagine my bare ocre

overwhelmed with spearheaded life

force 

splicing the core

seeds spill

serving to whet an appetite 

A poem for those who curl up with books instead of lovers on valentines day ~ x Arna

today it’s about bees

or is it about poison?

poisonous

mad making

arsenic accumulation

asylum

seeking

loopy lou

discombobulation?

is it about misfiration and never repletion

is it about my own….wanton disregardiosion…..

a bred terror of heavy metal intoxicablation

a hive in my mind my mind in the hive

please!

and they came to me a three bee formation

I buzzed in my heart and they sang to me

a golden prayer

madness?

the sharp toothy beastulous nipping

and dragging and forcing

leading

and feeding…

?

I COULD sit in the middle

here I would be happy

no celestial buzzing

no acid screeching….

just me

with a bee

drinking tea

Becoming Gravity

I am heavy

an enormous beast

a megalith

made of mud

a wide basket of stony faces

sluggish

dragging

a shape

HUGE

a fluctuating

undulating

salty water bag

barely contained

contained

seeking

flailing

squirming

for perforation

pleading

for

PUNCTURE

and so it was

becoming gravity

she flooded

blushed and waved

spreading

without shame

a merciless welcoming puddle

extending

to the sea

breakfast friend

she ate pastry from my fingertips

watching me

wanting

like a small man

pacing pecking tasting the air

my lips tilted

upward and light

like a feather-feeling

sunshine shifted across her glossy back

warming my chest

deep into the hollow there

I could have caught her shadow with my sugared hands

but I thought it nicer to lock with her

to share a sharp black gaze

and be thankful for the company

tragedy

warheads

pressing in-formation

causing her throat to swell and tighten

building desire

like cities

digging tunnels

too deeply

disrespectfully

into her earth

creating openings

and avalanches

minute tragedies in her stomach

leaving little flags where maybe something lies buried

tragedy that has nowhere else to go…

eat it or fuck it

the catch cry as armies march in

spiralling down

screwing through

her well….meant vows

taking them down

merciless

as though somehow in opposition

to her own will

full

set up

take it down

like dominoes

impossible!

black and white photos lending sentiment to the horror of endings

it hurts

she curls

sucking her fingers

confused … pleasure or pain

life FUCKING LIFE

with it’s love and death shit

a tragedy

swinging gaily in her stomach

hilarious

not special

just because it has nowhere else to go

Thankyou Trent Lewin for your poetic and inspiring words from ‘Promise: The Ending’

time perfume

my hands are pungent

cupping my face

I inhale

golden ochre fills me

my heart

a newly forming bowl on the wheel

moistened now by the rich echo of a smell I can taste

forming still…

I lick my hand and drive my time machine

back to 1978

a hot summer with brittle trees against a friendly blue sky

a far lighter blue than that of the bike I couldn’t ride

the water is almost gone and toads langor there

toxic and lumpy and lazy with peace

but OH they make us squeal

why do my hands feed to me that day now?

all clean and grown

I do langor like a toad though

breathing through nostrils that flare over thick lips of clay

memories move under my nails

like watercolour

reminding me of my birthday watch

lost

and the way Harriet snapped at the black mongrel

who DARED poke his nose beneath her tail….

maybe that’s when I dropped my watch

in the mud

by the dam

under grass

taller than me

salty feet

do apples move?

they roll from palm to palm

be an apple

with skin to lick and pierce

with crisp flesh that parts

float

like an apple in the bath

or on the sea

bobbing between

my salty feet

to contain

so soft are the edges

that boil and slide

inside the copper

a sweet fragrance

like sugar or moist tobacco

begging your tongue

to heat it

to bravely risk stringent addiction

tasting and….

moving

like a wild snake

coiling intelligence

looping and falling

willing

to swell in gravy waves

grasping the rim like a mouth

or fingers

to wander like an octopus

free my heart

to wild and gilded

overflow….

perhaps so hot it will fall through

unwelcome molten love

thickly sweating holes

into things

you thought were real

E. YES

I open

my

eye

S

Eeeeee.

E

YES

wiser and wiser

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